for our pets or for a small parrot or kingfisher
we found dead on the farm.
We made little circles of stones and put up crosses.
Here is where Dad’s old dog Streak is buried
and his last dog White Tail
and the mother cat
of our kittens.
Here are the sugar gums
planted by Pa’s grandmother.
So they are very old.
Galahs nest here
around Christmas time
and the ground is covered
in old gumnuts and leaves.
This place is quiet, special.
Maybe Leah would have liked
to have been buried here.
But she has her own place near our grandma.
The hill is where I feel close to Leah.
How can I say goodbye to this place?
How?
Leah was just a toddler when Grandma died
and Pa came to live with us for a while.
But I remember Grandma well.
She was always drawing and singing;
maybe that’s where Leah got her talents.
Trigger is already snuffling in the leaves.
He ignores, for once, the chooks
scratching nearby.
They love this place too.
Lots of beetles
and grubs and worms to eat.
I walk around the little pet graves,
work out where I can pitch my tent.
Wonder where Pa buried
his pets,
when he was a boy.
I can hardly remember the mother cat
and suddenly
I have a terrible thought:
Will I remember Leah?
I have photographs,
I have her handmade birthday cards,
our games together.
I will remember.
I find a spot right at the highest point
of the little hill
and begin hammering in the pegs.
It’s hard work.
The hill is dry; all the tree roots underneath
have taken all the moisture and spread thickly
like an underground web,
searching for even more moisture.
But I get there.
I’m sweaty.
I finish putting up the tent.
Straight away, a gumnut lands plonk
on the plastic roof.
Oh well, it might be a noisy night.
I look out as far as I can see,
say goodbye to the paddocks,
the dam, Memorial Hill itself.
But never goodbye to Leah;
what we remember and know will
come with us.
I decide to collect some of the gumnuts.
I know if I put them in a paper bag
like Mum does, then tiny pepper-like seeds
will fall out and maybe Mum will show me
how to grow sugar gums on our new farm.
I’m hungry again,
and I’m certain Mum will be baking,
getting ready for the big bonfire night,
ready for the clearing sale.
I love smelling biscuits
or muffins cooking, and Mum
cooks a lot.
Not Leah’s favourite of lemon
meringue pie anymore,
but Dad’s favourites and mine.
‘Need help?’ I ask. What I really mean is:
Are there any spare crumbs or bowls to lick?
Mum nods, hands me
an Anzac biscuit and a jam drop biscuit.
Feast!
‘How are the goodbyes going?’ she asks
as she spoons mixture into muffin pans.
I haven’t told anyone
but they all seem to know.
‘And the camping? Where are you tonight?’
‘Good,’ I mumble. ‘Nearly done.’
‘Memorial Hill,’ is all I say in answer
to her last question.
‘Good,’ Mum echoes, ‘then you can start packing
again.’
Packing! I nearly choke.
‘I know it’s hard Toby, but it has to be done.
I have put some cardboard boxes in your bedroom.
You only packed your old toys before.
Just about everything has to be packed now.
You might find something to put
in the clearing sale in two days’ time.
When you sort your things out.’
Mum smiles and hugs me.
‘And Toby, will you help me with Leah’s things?
I want to take her pencils, her little diaries,
some of her toys. You will know what to keep
better than me. Dad will help too. All together.’
Mum stops and tries to wipe her eyes
with floury fingers.
‘Sorry Toby,’ and Mum runs for the bathroom.
I can hear her crying and the water running
as she washes her hands.
‘Okay Mum,’ I call to her.
‘I have to feed the chooks,
see the new chicks.
Be back later.’
Too much happening.
Too much.
But I go out again,
talk to Trigger,
think about Leah,
maybe sort some more bits and pieces for Dad
after I’ve done the chooks.
Pa waves from the machinery shed
when he sees me.
He’s helping Dad sort out machinery.
After all,
some of it is Pa’s very old stuff.
Already Pa and Dad have begun
to set up auction lots around
the back of the machinery shed.
And this afternoon they are using the tractor
to pull the red
truck closer too.
The bonfire has grown.
It’s tall and wide.
Dad is putting thick logs
a bit of a way off, but still near the bonfire,
for seats.
He is finding more rubbish
as he and Pa work in the machinery shed.
A big BBQ is set up, ready for when
we have dinner on our last night on the farm.
There will be family and friends
from all around.
Coming to say goodbye,
wish us well,
remember Leah too,
chat about the times we’ve had here.
Last time we had a crowd it was after the funeral.
Well, there will be lots of people here
for the clearing sale,
but they might be mainly strangers, buyers
and perhaps stickybeaks too.
Too hard to talk then,
but later,
when it’s time for the last goodbye,
Jaxon might like to jump on the trampoline
with me, or look at the bantam chicks …
I have to go and sit in my tent.
Everything is moving too fast now,
goodbyes will be shortened. Our time here
is quickly ending. A new farm, a new home;
smaller without Leah.
Different.
Sad, but I remember
what Pa said: To live is to remember Leah.
And I wipe my tears;
they just keep coming
without me even noticing somet
imes.
Trigger licks my face, brings his favourite stick
for me to throw, nudges and nudges until I say:
‘Alright Trigger, here, fetch.’
And he fetches and begs for me to throw
it again and again, until I’m smiling
at the way he scoops up the stick and charges back.
Then, just like that, Trigger has had enough
and lies down.
I think I’ll lie down too
for a bit.
There’s a shower of gumnuts
on the roof of my tent.
I wake up and it’s late afternoon.
I can’t work out where
I am, but remember it will be time to hose
down the cow yard soon.
I race over to the back door,
pull on my boots.
Both the cats and Trigger follow me
to the cowshed.
Pa’s ute is gone.
There are only a few rows of cows
left to be milked.
Dad waves as he fetches another lot of cows
to line up.
I wait until the yard is empty,
pull up the backing gate.
Drag the thick hose right up to the end
of the concrete
and begin.
I remember again Leah taking turns with this job;
she always helped, especially with the calves.
I know on the next farm
we will only have cattle and sheep,
no dairy cows.
Different again.
Things change.
So much.
I know this now.
Mum, Dad and Pa are going through
the clearing sale lists
printed out from the computer.
We’ve had our dinner
and I’m helping to dry the dishes.
‘Toby, are you still sleeping in your tent tonight?’
asks Mum.
I nod.
‘Could be noisy under those sugar gums,’ she adds.
‘That’s fine.’ I smother a yawn. I’m so tired,
so tired.
Mum hugs me, wet tea towel and all. Kisses me.
Dad and Pa say goodnight as I take my torch,
push open the back door
and see Trigger waiting.
Outside the sky is like a Christmas pageant,
all that silver starlight.
I point the torch ahead
and catch the sudden thick flight
of an owl.
I hear the echo of a car on the road,
paddocks away. The wind stirs
the sugar gum leaves and the gumnuts plink
in a sudden, drumming flurry.
I put my torch down, fling my arms out wide,
look up to the sky and try to give this moment
one huge final hug.
‘Goodbye farm night.’ Then I pick up
my torch again, crawl into my tent,
my sleeping-bag.
Trigger crawls in too.
I listen to the night sounds
as if it’s my own private concert,
until my tiredness
blots everything out.
It’s clearing sale day.
Dad gets the cows in earlier than usual.
They grumble. Really.
Flick tails, butt one another,
charge in a different direction
to the motorbike.
Trigger knows everything is out of order
and barks. He’s not a working dog; even though he’s a kelpie,
he failed his working-dog trial.
Some dogs don’t make the grade,
Dad had said, and I begged him to keep Trigger,
my dog, my farm dog.
I’d pleaded and Dad had given in.
Of course, even the cows know
he’s not a working dog and take no notice,
moo louder.
Last night Dad said, ‘The auctioneers will be here
early.
I’ll need your help Toby.
Pa will come too.’
Even before I roll the hose back up
from washing the yard, the first ute
arrives, then another.
The local CWA ladies
are catering and will use
the kitchen to prepare sandwiches.
All the power points in the machinery shed
are in use with the auctioneer’s computers
and electronic equipment.
Little trestle tables spring up with labels
like registration, payment, enquiries.
There are clipboards, pens and brochures
typed up by the auctioneering company.
I sigh as I read the list of
all our goods, then watch as a man
puts lot numbers in front
of each pile of equipment or box.
‘Tom Elliot’s my name,’ he says and shakes
my hand.
Pa is directing utes and cars
to the house paddock to park.
I see people I know. I half-wave,
half-hide.
‘Here Toby,’ Dad calls.
And I help place more boxes
from the machinery shed
in rows wide enough for people
to walk between.
Smaller items are in the machinery shed,
bigger items are outside.
There are so many boxes.
Soon there are more people
than dairy cows.
‘There’s the O’Brien family,’ says Dad
and waves.
The auctioneer gets up on
the back of the old red truck.
‘Hope he doesn’t fall through,’
I mutter.
time to begin the sale of a lifetime,
of a generation …’
I block my ears, go to my tree house,
climb till I am invisible behind
gumleaves.
I have my own secret place
to watch as the auctioneer
raises his voice and that man,
Tom Elliot, stands beside him
and scans the crowd for bids.
‘Sold! Going, going! Sold!’
The words are repeated, the crowd moves
along the rows. Then slowly
utes back up, load their goods
and empty spaces appear.
People sit on hay bales
with mugs of tea, plates of sandwiches
and cakes.
Trigger whines for me to come down,
but I can’t, not yet.
Pa waves once, Mum looks for me,
waves too, then the auctioneer
points to the old red truck he is standing on.
Bidding starts. ‘Sold!’ he shouts,
and someone brings in a bigger truck
with its own mini-crane and the old red truck
is winched onto the buyer’s vehicle.
‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ I whisper,
and I let my head rest
on my folded arms.
Strangers and friends mill around
Dad, Pa and Mum, then the dust drifts
again as cars, utes, trucks leave,
piggybacking parts of our life.
‘Oh Leah,’ I whisper, ‘it’s sad
but you would have liked spying
on it all from
up here.’
Goodbye Deep Well Farm
Pa is here early the next morning.
He’s brought more chairs, and a table.
Then he keeps working in the machinery shed.
I go and help.
‘Lots of bits and pieces that people didn’t want
have been left behind,’ he laughs.
‘Pa,’ I ask, ‘how did you get used to leaving?’
‘Hmm, I suppose your grandma and I
knew it was coming.
It gave us more time to do some travelling,
some hobbies.
We were happy here and happy
when your dad and mum
took over the work.
Perhaps I would have liked you or Leah
to take over too. But things change.
The O’Briens and their extended family will look
after the farm.’
‘Will you come to our new farm?’ I ask.
‘It won’t have milking cows.’
‘Yes, I’ll have to stay a few nights then,
it’s a long way away.
Closer to your mum’s family.
That will be good.
The cats, chooks and of course Trigger
will go with you,
and some of your dad’s beef cattle,
so not everything has been sold.
And the tractors will go too.’
I nod. It’s beginning to sound a little bit exciting.
Cousins I hardly know to meet,
a new school, new farm.
‘But will we forget Leah?’ I blurt out.
And the tears spring again.
‘Of course not, Toby.
Listen, Leah is here in our hearts
and up here in our memories.
And on every special occasion
we’ll remember her.’ And Pa holds me tight.
‘Come on, we’ve earned some morning tea
and I hear that your mum has had a big baking day.’
We put our boots at the back door,
wash our hands,
and Pa always combs his hair as well.
We help Mum with the coffee,
pile biscuits on plates.
‘Not too many,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll need some for tonight.’
‘Lots coming?’ asks Pa.
‘Not sure, but expect a few. It’s the final goodbye
really.’
‘That will be hard,’ says Pa.
Mum nods.
We eat in silence, then Pa goes back to the shed
and I help Mum cut up carrots,
cabbage, celery, tomatoes, radishes.
‘Salads for our BBQ tonight,’ explains Mum.
‘Are you happy to see some of your friends Toby?’
Mum looks at me closely.
I nod. I know it will be part of my goodbyes.
‘At least there will be a huge bonfire